


sideways rocking stars

by nezstorm



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Anal Sex, Angry Sex, Angst, College Student Stiles, Fights, Fluff, M/M, Manipulative Peter, Mentions of Casual Sex, Musician Peter, Rimming, Rockstar Peter, Sexual Content, Young Peter Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-03 00:40:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14557122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nezstorm/pseuds/nezstorm
Summary: “Please get your uncle out of here before I mangle the pretty face he earns his living with. And keep him away from me because next time I won’t be this generous.” The guy said, a saccharine sweet smile plastered on his face, and then he just walked away, leaving a slack-jawed Peter to be pulled and prodded out of the club and into the street.He whirled on his nephew the moment they were safe and alone in his apartment.“Who the hell was that?!”Derek regarded him for a moment, eyebrow arched in disbelief. “You really don’t know?”“I wouldn’t be fucking asking if I did.” Peter seethed.“That,” Derek stalled collecting his keys and jacket, “was Stiles.”--Or the one with Peter as a rockstar and Stiles refuses to fall for his manipulative ways.





	1. Chapter 1

Peter always enjoyed being the brain behind an operation, manipulating people with a charming smile and skilled tongue. Thrived on using his assets for an end result that benefited him best. He was a leader. He was supposed to have minions, people to cater to his whims, bait, someone to be offed when he sucked them dry of their potential.

 

He supposed fans and groupies even more so were the next best thing.

 

Peter loved music as much as he loved ruling so combining the two was an easy choice for a life path. It helped that he had a good voice, a smile that brought people in, a body built to stir want. A calculating mind and plans that never failed. 

 

He was a one-man show, but he handpicked his band. Selected the best he could, while still unknown. Those he knew would grow under the right hand, those who just needed a push. 

 

At twenty three Peter Hale had a name that had women and men trampling over each other and had a pile of money that could last a few luxurious lifetimes.

 

It wasn't that easy of course. It took great effort to stay at the top or at least very close to it. An occasional gossip, a scandal or two to breach a lull. There was always something to do: concert tour, interviews, recordings, parties. A fan meet here and there, letting the papz spot him at a club and losing them when he had what he wanted. There were slips, there always would be. But they were never anything he, his manager and a few hundreds couldn't solve.

 

But his biggest success was also what brought him the most trouble when it concerned Stiles.

 

When Peter concocted his plan, when he started on this road, he didn't consider that he might actually find something else that would make him question his choices. He didn't count that he'd find someone that would occupy his mind just as much by the sheer fact that they were not instantly taken by Peter's charm.

 

They met at a club, on one of the few rare days of the year when Peter was back home and giving himself some time to relax, regroup, rethink. Peter walked in fully aware that he'd be recognized, that he'd have women pressing against him and men invading his personal space. He knew how to take care of it, what kind were good to take out for a night, which were better off pushed away by his stand-in bodyguard - his nephew.

 

That night he wanted to get his hands on somebody, to spend a few minutes dancing and sweet-talking his way into a bed, a few hours fucking someone into the mattress. 

 

He spotted him a bit off-center from the crowd, dancing with a group of people that seemed to be his friends. He was beautiful: pale skin glowing in the flashing lights, lean body moving with the beat, long neck to bite in, mouth like sin, eyes on fire. The sway of his hips was hypnotizing and Peter gravitated to him without even realizing what he was doing.

 

The man didn't seem to mind it when Peter fitted himself against his back, when his hands caged his hips almost possessively. He pressed into Peter, in fact, moved against him with the rhythm of the next two songs. Allowed Peter to bite a line down the side of his neck, let Peter's hand roam over his stomach. He didn't object when Peter turned him around, choosing to clasp his arms around Peter's neck instead.

 

And if he was beautiful from a distance, he was stunning from an inch away.

 

The man didn't seem to think the same about Peter though. Because the moment their eyes met and he was recognized Peter was pushed away hard enough to stumble. Before he registered what actually happened the man was off and gone, Peter left on the dance floor baffled and absolutely furious. 

 

Rejection stung. It burnt with shame and ice-cold rage. You do not simply push Peter Hale away, not without consequence. Though that night Peter left the club shortly after, not inclined to make a move on anyone else, a bad taste left in his mouth. 

 

He fumed the whole next day, but the longer he was annoyed the more intrigued he was as well. Peter wasn’t a stranger to people not appreciating his advances; he might be vain, but he wasn’t exactly delusional, thinking that everybody wants him. But never before had he been pushed away because of who he was.

 

Because it was clear in the way Peter remembered the man’s face contorting with annoyance, maybe even light disgust, that he was recognized. 

 

He had to wonder what it was about him that caused such reaction. It was the first time they ever met, Peter was certain, because he was sure he’d remember the man: his gleaming pale skin, the constellations of moles dotting hi skin, his lean, strong body. The burning whiskey eyes and obscene, plush mouth were not something easily forgotten. Especially not if Peter became the center of their focus for a few pleasurable hours.

 

Peter kept trying to figure it out, think of any possible reasons the guy could have to treat Peter as if he fucked his girlfriend or boyfriend, or run his puppy over, crushed his dreams, anything. Peter hated not knowing things, being left in the dark. He prided himself in being informed, in using knowledge for his personal gain. So to have such an unknown thrown in his face ate at him to a point of a slight obsession.

 

Peter went back to the club the next night, but left when he didn’t find the man there not even bothering to find someone else to spend the night with. Derek’s eyebrows were climbing new heights when he had to drive Peter straight back home so early a second night in the row.

 

By the fourth night his nephew was visibly worried and looked close to voicing his concern, but Peter was too busy scanning the crowd care. He was a man on a mission and he had no patience for Derek’s rare show of emotion.

 

He almost missed him: caught between a girl and another male, both of them with curly dark hair and pretty attractive though not even close to the man they were dancing with. His hips gyrating and head thrown back as he laughed – he looked breathtaking and like everything Peter needed to have.

 

Peter already knew how it felt to have that body pressed against him, how it felt to have those hips sway with his, how hot his skin was under his touch. 

 

Watching him in that moment, so carefree and loose, relaxed and playful as he danced; it made Peter even more determined to learn why he was so blatantly rejected the other night. If only because he needed to make amends and then get his hands on the man.

 

\---

 

Peter had to admit anger was a good look on him too: cheeks rosy, an adorable crease between his brows, eyes vivid with color, blazing.

 

“What do you want?” The man snarled, upper lip curled attractively, dangerously.

 

“I want to know what your problem with me is. We’ve never met before. I’m sure I’d remember.” Peter smiled what he knew to be his most seductive smile.

 

That was completely lost on the man before him judging by the way his glare intensified. 

 

“Clearly,” The man’s voice was as cold as ice as he replied; he looked close to baring his teeth, his rage so clear to Peter in that moment. Peter wasn’t liked by all, but he was never hated so vehemently. It was tangible on every word. “I was not worth remembering.”

 

Before Peter could even consider replying the man was opening his mouth again.

 

“Derek!”

 

_ What? _

 

Peter’s nephew, who was mingling about while keeping a close eye on Peter, was at their side in an instant. Derek looked surprised, but didn’t seem shocked to have been called for by a complete stranger. He even turned to him to ask what the problem was.

 

“Please get your uncle out of here before I mangle the pretty face he earns his living with. And keep him away from me because next time I won’t be this generous.” The guy said, a saccharine sweet smile plastered on his face, and then he just walked away, leaving a slack-jawed Peter to be pulled and prodded out of the club and into the street.

 

He whirled on his nephew the moment they were safe and alone in his apartment.

 

“Who the hell was that?!”

 

Derek regarded him for a moment, eyebrow arched in disbelief. “You really don’t know?”

 

“I wouldn’t be fucking asking if I did.” Peter seethed.

 

“That,” Derek stalled collecting his keys and jacket, “was Stiles.”

 

And with that he left.

 

\---

 

Peter sunk to the couch and reached for the half-empty bottle of whiskey standing on the coffee table. Forgoing the tumbler he drank directly from the bottle before slouching forward, the bottle dangling between his spread legs as he held it loosely by the neck.

 

Stiles.

 

Huh.

 

It was so obvious to him really, now that he had the name, that he felt almost embarrassed for not knowing immediately. He should have recognized him straight away, should have realized that the pull he felt towards him was something more, something old. Something he hadn’t felt in years.

 

He could blame it on all the time that passed since he had last seen him, since the last time they shared the same space. Since the last time they snarked at each other, knowing exactly how and what buttons to press, which ones leave alone. Since Stiles became a sophomore and Peter graduated high school.

 

Since that summer five years ago and the last fight they had before Peter left for college, only to decide it wasn’t quite for him.

 

They weren’t exactly friends. Peter only ever considered his nephew to fit into that category. They were only three years apart, and while his niece Laura was a bit closer to him in age Derek was the only one that could match Peter in being a sarcastic asshole. Derek had more morale though which made him try to put a stop to some of Peter’s more adventurous plans.

 

Derek was also the one to value people on the basis of their character and not their usefulness. Thus where Peter had a flock of minions Derek had a bunch of people to that he could call his friends.

 

Stiles. Stiles belonged to Derek’s circle first and invaded Peter’s space by default the same way the others did. But he wasn’t as irritating as the rest of them. Or at least a different kind of irritating. Stiles filled in the gap Derek’s ethics left. 

 

Stiles was the only one Peter thought of as on par with him within Derek’s group of puppies. He never let Peter get the better of him, never let Peter get away with mean comments, never fell for Peter’s manipulating ways. 

 

It was refreshing back then and it was refreshing now, the way Stiles never failed to surprise Peter.

 

At least that much didn’t change in the five years they haven’t seen each other. 

 

Peter took another long sip from his bottle and leaned back into the couch trying to remember the gangly mess that was Stiles at fifteen.

 

Stiles had always been lean; all long limbs, big hands, bigger grin. Hardly coordinated as he talked gesturing widely. His hair had been short back then, buzzed close to skin; his body covered in layer upon layer of clothing, hidden from view. He’d never been ordinary, not with his burning eyes and dotted, pale skin. He filled in every space he occupied with raw energy, at times to the point of overflowing.

 

It was both annoying and endearing. The way he never missed a chance to butt in with a sarcastic remark, how he knew something about everything and quite a lot about the most bizarre of subjects. Stiles wielded his knowledge the way Peter wielded his charm, he was just as cunning, just as threatening.

 

He just never used his assets for a chance to rule.

 

But that didn’t make him a follower either and Peter always liked that in him, liked that didn’t trail blindly after other people. Stiles chose his equals, those he considered worthy of his trust and care, his loyalty. Stiles was nothing if not fiercely protective of those he held dear and god have mercy  on those who dared hurt his friends.

 

Peter thought that only the fact Stiles did consider him a part of his circle at that time was what saved him for the full force of a Stilinski’s rage. 

 

He just never considered it might last this long. 

 

\---

 

Peter had intended to forget about it all after the last encounter. Not because he was afraid Stiles would make good of his threat - he didn’t doubt he would, but Peter could stand his ground in a fight. Peter simply didn’t do messy situations.

 

He went about his days the way he always did during his break: caught up with the few people he cared for, sorted out his schedule for the next few busy months with his manager, dropped by a party or two, stirred the pot and got laid. 

 

Derek kept him company most of the time, bodyguard and friend or either, depending on the need. He seemed to be paying Peter a bit more attention the first few days, but he didn’t mention Stiles at all. For which Peter was thankful.

 

For the most part, Peter thought that it was a done deal. A short trip down memory lane. Nothing he had really the time for. 

 

But no matter how hard he didn’t think about Stiles he always seemed to find a way back into Peter’s head. It was like a flood gate opened and suddenly Peter was remembering things from years back. 

 

Remembered Stiles never allowing him to get the upper hand in a discussion, remembered Stiles always trying to steal his fries, remembered long hours spent talking about movies and books they both loved or hated. Remembered the three of them, because Derek was always somehow involved in what they were doing, going to the movies, getting drunk on alcohol they managed to steal from home, teaming up for pranks Peter thought worthy of his time. 

 

Remembered a long, pale neck, obscenely red lips, the press of Stiles’ strong, lean body as they danced for that short while. The way they just clicked as they moved there on the dance floor, like a promise of another sort of dance. He remembered the raw, sybaritic power Stiles held, the fire in his eyes, the strength of his limbs.

 

Once he started remembering he couldn’t stop. 

 

Peter knew himself well enough to know that it was mostly the fact that Stiles told him no that had him so close to obsessed. Such a decisive rejection didn’t sting as much as challenged him to try to change Stiles’ mind. The fact they had a bit of history only served to make the chase all the more thrilling.

 

And every good chase involved a thorough preparation. 

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Peter didn’t remember much about his fight with Stiles. 

 

He knew it took place at the end of summer because he moved away to college soon after and they lost all contact. But he couldn’t recall where they were while they fought, who threw the first punch, who stormed off after, who came out more jagged. 

 

Well no, that last one was pretty obvious.

 

Still, Peter knew he’d never fought like that with anybody else because there wasn’t really anyone who could stand up to him like Stiles could back then. Who could get Peter so invested in it, make him feel it at his core. There wasn’t anyone like that now either. Not even Derek, but that was simply because Derek wasn’t anywhere close to being an asshole the way Stiles and Peter were.

 

No one could give as good as he got and throw back in even more like Stiles could. No one could press exactly where it would hurt Peter most, driving a knife into his gut just so; like an equal.

 

He could only imagine it now, five years later, how into it Stiles would have been judging by the way he acted at the club and what he still remembered of the teenager he used to be. His whole body would be in motion, attuned to the emotion and thrown around with the words meant to drive through, stab and bruise. Peter could imagine the flow of his limbs, long arms and nimble fingers drawn into the fight, drawing pictures accordingly to his words, sharp and piercing. Perforating. 

 

He could imagine the angry flush of his cheeks, spreading further the more riled up Stiles got, lighting up his face, drawing all the attention to his eyes.

 

The fiery, amber eyes like molten gold, shining with righteous fury; the same way they shone last night at the club. And as much as he didn’t have to imagine that, didn’t have to remember that angry stare, he still had to figure out what exactly happened at the end of that summer for Stiles to hate him eve now.

 

It was the first step of his plan to capture Stiles.

 

\-- 

 

His options there were limited. He couldn’t just ask Stiles about it even though it would be the best source still. If Stiles ever decided to tell him. Or talk to him without breaking his jaw.

 

He could maybe ask one of Stiles’ friends, it’d be quite easy to track them down in a town as small as Beacon Hills, but he doubted they’d actually give him the answers he needed. Or any answers at all. Either because they didn’t know or because of their loyalty to Stiles.

 

It was pretty clear that Derek was the only one that could, and perhaps even would, help him. Because Derek used to be Stiles’ friend as well.

 

\--

 

“Are.”

 

Pausing mid-chord Peter looked up from where he was fiddling with the strings of his acoustic. He would be back in the studio and working on his new album in a week and he still had a few ideas he wanted to tweak with before that. “What?”

 

“You mean ‘are’ friends with Stiles.” Derek shrugged in answer to Peter’s inquisitive stare, made himself comfortable on Peter’s couch. “We still talk, hang out when we’re both in town.”

 

“You never said.”

 

“You never asked.” 

 

Peter glared at him icily, but Derek only smirked at him in reply. Snotty brat.

 

Leaning his guitar against the wall Peter sat back in his armchair. It was big, red leather, spacious. Perfect to lounge in and for other, more pleasurable activities. That Peter hadn’t had the mind for because he was too preoccupied with an infuriating, pale skinned, long limbed, absolutely delightful Stiles.

 

Which brought him back to the matter on hand. 

 

He could probably take the roundabout way, meander for a bit and see if Derek would mention something, but Peter needed answers so he could act. And well, this was Derek. His nephew had no patience for obliqueness. The direct approach was always the best one with him and the only one with any chance of success.

 

“Why is Stiles so angry with me?” Peter asked on a sigh. 

 

Derek snorted inelegantly and crossed his arms over his chest. “You know why.”

 

“I don’t. I know we fought, but that’s all I remember.” 

 

Derek studied him for a long moment, eye boring into him, but Peter was used to those stares. They were a lot easier to stand than the judgemental eyebrows and Peter had built up resistance to those a long time ago.

 

“It’s not my business. Wasn’t back then, isn’t now.” Derek finally told him. 

 

Peter hardly managed to hold in the urge to growl. He remained silent though and waited. He had years of experience with dealing with Derek and knew when the man was stalling, gauging Peter’s reaction. Still, that didn’t stop him from glowering at Derek.

 

“I never asked,” Derek continued, “but from what Stiles  _ did _ tell me shortly after I know he felt betrayed. He trusted you and you did something that broke that trust. And no, I have no idea what you did.” Derek added before Peter could open his mouth to ask.

 

“He said that you had to be called out, told that you were a dickbag and made to apologize when you’ve done something wrong.” Derek picked up again, gave Peter a look and snorted, clearly in agreement with Stiles. “I think he was waiting for you to do that: come back and at least admit you were in the wrong. Get your head out of your ass.”

 

Ah. Only, Peter never did.

 

Peter sat back and mulled it over. 

 

Why hadn’t he? 

 

Granted, he wasn’t the type to ever beg for forgiveness, but he never actually had to. There were hardly any people worth his concern, few he wanted to keep around and would apologize to had he been out of line. But he would apologize, he knew the words, knew how to get back into someone’s good graces. He rarely let go of people that crawled under his skin.

 

And he liked Stiles then. Enjoyed his company. He surely had considered him worth admitting that Peter was in the wrong if he ever overstepped.  

 

Just what happened to make Peter never try? To make him erase him from his mind almost completely for five years?

 

“How did I forget him?” He mused aloud. 

 

He almost startled when Derek spoke up, forgot he was even there for a moment. 

 

“You’re very efficient when it comes to avoiding issues you don’t want to deal with.” And well, Derek had a point there. “Way I remember it, you practically threw yourself into college life. In fact, you were so busy with parties, bodies and earning yourself a place at the top that you didn’t even come home for Thanksgiving or Christmas. I had to go up to you every now and then to check if you were still alive.” 

 

Peter only vaguely remembered that part of his life. It was a bit stormy and short, and once he had enough of that, he quit and moved on to music. It was pretty much the same: alcohol and sex, but there was more splendor to it, more work and certainly more money. 

 

But how did that translate to erasing Stiles when clearly Derek still stayed in contact with him? Derek who was just about as picky about his friends as Peter and who never really kept anything a secret from his uncle. Even if only because Peter always found out in the end. He certainly never hid any people from Peter though.

 

“How is it that you never mentioned him until the other day then?” 

 

For some reason that question made Derek laugh. “You asked me not to.”

 

“What?”

 

“Well, maybe not verbally. But the one time I did say something about Stiles you threw a half full bottle of Jack at a wall. The message was clear enough.”

 

Peter could admit, though only to himself, that he was a bit of a drama queen sometimes. 

 

“Whatever it is that you want from him, leave it.” Derek said with a scowl. “Just leave him alone.”

 

Peter arched a brow at him, surprised by the warning. Derek didn’t usually do that: tell Peter what he should or shouldn’t do. Clearly, Stiles was important enough to him to try.

 

Once Peter put his mind to something however, there was hardly anything that could stop him.

 

“You know that isn’t how this works, Derek.”

 

Derek sighed because he did know Peter enough to know that. “This is the one time it should.”

 

\--

 

Beacon Hills was a small town; everybody knew each other, if only in passing and just about all knew the Sheriff’s son. So it was ridiculously easy to find Stiles, once Peter put his mind to it, to find the places he frequented, the people he knew, that he no longer lived with his father. Yet he was so damn difficult to approach.

 

Mostly because Peter couldn’t quite escape the public eye,  _ especially _ in this town. He could get lost in the crowd in New York or Berlin, Shanghai, without much problem. But city folk hadn’t known him since birth, didn’t know him as the four year old who commandeered every child in the sandbox, or at thirteen when he was captain or president to every club, team or group of people he spent any time at all with in school. 

 

Peter loved the attention, all the people flocking around him, the way he could work them all up with just a single smile. But there were times when he was too tired for it, spent after long days in the studio and longer concerts, live shows and countless interviews. When he needed a bit of air and some time to think.

 

Or when he needed to learn and observe.

 

It took some hard work to pick clothes that fit him least, to pull on a hat and sunglasses that made him feel ridiculous, but allowed him to prowl after Stiles unrecognized. 

 

Peter didn’t exactly mean to spend so much time following Stiles around, but he seemed to never be alone and have friends everywhere. It wasn’t actually a downside, if he were to be honest: Stiles in his own element was a fascinating sight. He was expressive and vibrant, with seemingly never-ending bouts of enthusiasm. 

 

Peter never got close enough to eavesdrop, he wasn’t there for that, but Stiles’ body alone was articulate and vivid in the way it played along to his speech. It looked almost like an intricate dance and more than once Peter caught himself staring, enthralled with the way nimble fingers pointed and drifted through air, the way Stiles’ body arched to and fro whomever he was talking to. The completely obscene way he bit his lips and flicked his tongue over them. The rich arch of his neck when he threw his head back to laugh.

 

He was so enraptured in the display. So caught in the image of that pale skin coloring under his lips, those amber eyes glazed and dark and wanting. That plush pink mouth bee-stung and spit-slick, parted on a moan, screaming his name. 

 

So bewitched it took him a moment to notice that Stiles was no longer seated five tables over at the cafe, sipping his coffee and talking with a friend. And that he was heading straight for Peter with a stormy expression marring his features. 

 

He got dragged out of the cafe, Stiles holding his arm in a tight, unforgiving grip. Peter thought he should put up a bit of a fight on principle alone, but this gave him exactly what he wanted so he settled on simply matching Stiles’ pace. 

 

They didn’t go far. Turned a few corners until they were in a back alley, with no one else in sight. Only then did Stiles release his grip before rounding on Peter and shoving him into the wall.

 

It was a hard push, meant to hurt and put distance between them. And Peter might have scratched his elbow on the brick wall, but he was too focused on the man in front of him to notice. He finally got the confrontation he wanted.

 

Stiles was visibly seething: his hands balled into fists at his sides, back rigid and body practically vibrating with rage. His words came out on a growl. “Why are you following me? And don’t you even dare deny it. I’ve seen you in the mall and at the bookstore. It’d think it coincidence since this is a small town. But that was before you came into the cafe after us. Three makes a pattern so just tell me what the hell you want and piss off. Unless you want me to make good on the promise I made.”

 

He looked like he was itching for it to, to catch Peter’s face on one of those fists. Peter did want for Stiles to get his hands on him, but that wasn’t exactly how he wanted it to happen.

 

So he leaned against the wall and pushed his glasses up to settle them atop his head, got a clear and unobstructed view of just how unimpressed Stiles was.

 

He blew out a steadying breath and went for it. 

 

"What have I done to make you so angry with me?"

 

Stiles stared at him incredulously for a second before barking a short, ugly laugh. 

 

"You seriously forgot. Wow.” Stiles shook his head in what seemed like disbelief. Peter watched him as he unclenched his fists and crossed his arms on his chest. “You actually managed to completely erase me from your memory. I'm impressed. Tell me your secret, maybe I'll manage to forget you too."

 

His voice practically dripped with sarcasm, but it was still heavily underlayed with anger and Peter really had enough of all that stalling. He was getting pissed off himself. He  _ had  _ to know.

 

"Are you going to actually answer the question?" He bit out.

 

Stiles laughed mirthlessly again and the sound grated on Peter’s nerves. It looked like Stiles was  _ aching _ for this moment. For a fight.

 

"Why? Because five years later my ass is hot enough for you to care? Am I good enough for a fuck before you throw me away again?"

 

Stiles uncrossed his arms; he stepped back, turned away and paced a few steps before facing Peter again. His eyes were that perfect shade of amber, fired up and ready to burn, mouth twisted in a snarl. 

 

He was clearly just starting.

 

"Tell me, Peter, what's the name of the last person you slept with? Tell me and I'll consider sucking you off.”

 

Peter didn’t even bother to dignify that with an answer because Stiles didn’t actually want one. He remained silent and waited, seething quietly and wondering where Stiles was heading with this. 

 

"No? How about the name of my best friend?” Stiles was in his face now, his hands braced at either side of Peter’s head as he spit the words out. Heat twisted in Peter’s gut. “The one you fucked in my guest room at a party and completely ignored until the next one when you fucked and forgot her again?" He pushed himself away from Peter again, the movement furious and carrying him back a few feet.

 

"I never promise them anything,” Peter defended himself, “Nothing more than a good time. Never did." Because as much as Peter enjoyed seducing people he never did it under false pretenses. He didn’t need people attaching themselves to him, didn’t need the baggage, the drama. The sex was never worth it, no matter how spectacular it might have been. It was a rule he came up years ago. After-

 

_ Oh. _ After he fought with Stiles over it. Over the girl whose name he couldn’t remember.

 

"Oh, I know.” Stiles continued. His words were enunciated, deliberate. “I'm perfectly aware of that. But you used my best friend, Peter. Like a fucking toy. You didn't even have the decency to act remorseful when I called you out on it.” He seemed to deflate after that, and Peter was surprised to see hurt in those fiery eyes. An old kind of pain.

 

"We were friends and yet you still did that. Then you left and forgot. And now I'm good enough for another screw over."

 

Peter didn’t have much to say to that, wasn’t sure if he should apologize and whether it would have even been taken seriously since until moments ago he hadn’t even remembered Stiles.

 

And Stiles, worst of all, knew that.

 

He looked at Peter: still furious, but also sad. Pained. 

 

"You fucking forgot me, Peter."

 

"You've changed." Peter replied and barely held in the urge to wince. 

 

"And you haven't changed anything at all." He turned to walk away and Peter couldn’t allow that. He spent too much time thinking of this, spent too many hours obsessed with Stiles to just let it all go. 

 

He grabbed Stiles’ wrist to stop him, surprised when he actually did. Only to stagger back the moment Stiles turned. 

 

In hindsight, he really should have seen the hit coming. 

 

Even if he could have never foreseen the furious kiss that followed. 

 

\--

 

The first kiss was a surprise, a shove turned into a pull that ended with Stiles closing the distance between them. There was no question in it, no doubt. It was just a flicker of a moment before Peter was being pushed away again.

 

Stiles was still frowning at him, his eyes hot with color, cheeks red with anger. Plush mouth about to open to deliver another nasty jab and just begging to be shut.

 

The second was an attack, sharp teeth and a deep growl pressed into Peter's mouth.

 

Every kiss that came after was a fight, an exchange of arguments that left them both breathless, their lips swollen and wet with spit.

 

Every touch was a point made, a quip stinging with the sharpness of blunt teeth, red tracks of heavy words. Purpling marks took place of every hateful remark.

 

Each thrust was an electric current that made the air around the crackle. That made their kisses taste of ozone and sharp, fiery fury.

 

\--

 

In the morning, when the haze of sex dropped and all that was left were soiled sheets and strewn around clothes, Stiles got up and pulled on his boxers without glancing at Peter once. They were in Stiles’ apartment, staggered there after they parted for breath long enough for Peter to register the ache in his jaw and the blood on his lips. 

 

Now Peter watched him as he picked a clean shirt from his drawer, threw it over his shoulder covering one of the purple marks Peter left on his skin,  and whirled on Peter still sprawled in his bed.

 

“Get out.”

 

Peter stared up at him because that wasn’t what he counted on after the previous night. What it was exactly he wasn’t sure, but definitely not this. He’d never been thrown out before.

 

Stiles’ jaw was set though, lips thinned and determined. 

 

“You got what you wanted from me. Since you got that out of your system, do me the courtesy and leave while I’m in the shower. And never contact me again.”

 

Then he turned on his heel and disappeared in the bathroom.

 

And that was that. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Only, it wasn’t the end at all.

 

\--

 

The work on the new album was slow to begin. They were easing into it, the crew getting their bearings, half of them still on the bare ends of jetlags. They were making rough outlines before a rougher schedule, catching up and collecting all they needed as they put the studio up.

 

It all meant that while Peter was technically back to work there wasn’t much actual working going on just yet. Well, not on that front at the very least.

 

He had some places to be and people to see, but it was still nothing compared to the heat of album promotions. It left him with time to spare between charming smiles and witty answers so Peter threw himself into the pastime he enjoyed best.

 

And if he did so quite a bit more enthusiastically than usual, well, he could care less about the judging stares.

  
  


\--

 

He went for it because he felt unsettled. Off. His skin tight with tension, his nerves a little frayed. It was a bit like hunger, like an insistent need. He knew the feeling, everybody alive knew the taste of want. But it felt a bit different than the usual. It was a tad higher level of horny than what he was accustomed to.

 

It was justified too, he thought, what with the whole dry period of time spent trying to get Stiles to open up to him. Peter could go without sex, he wasn’t a slave to needs, but he enjoyed it enough to look for it. He was young, adventurous. He liked steering people and having them crawl into his lap. He liked the heat of it, the pressure points, the touch. The moment of closeness. The power it gave him.

 

So while it wasn’t out of the ordinary, it was out of proportion.

 

And there was just something that didn’t feel quite right about it all no matter who he was with.

 

\--

 

There was always a party to go to, a place for him to be, to swagger into and claim whatever he wanted. Whoever he noticed. There was always good fun, loud music, louder people. Pools of alcohol and clouds of smoke. Illusions of anonymity among other celebrities or being the king of the crowd.

 

And there was always a body or two willing to keep him company through the night.

 

Peter lost count of them after the first week. After the third he stopped even bothering to ask for their names. He wouldn’t be calling them after anyways, wouldn’t remember in the next hour.

 

He only remembered that they were  _ wrong _ . That they didn’t  _ fit. _ That no matter how good it was there was always something missing, always a sense of loss and a slight confusion.

 

He only knew that their eyes were never gold enough, striking enough. Not as alive. That she was too bouncy, too pliant, didn’t have enough bite. That his skin was too dark or too  _ clean, _ not marked with enough little dark imperfections. Not enough freckles for him to count and connect in his mind, with his mouth.

 

It became a pattern of never enough, never exactly what he needed until he just couldn’t do it anymore and threw all his focus into work, directing his frustrations to music.

 

\---

 

Sex with Stiles wasn’t earth-shattering or world-changing. It was good, very good even, but still nothing Peter couldn’t get from someone else.

 

But.

 

What threw him off was that there was a ‘but’ in the first place.

 

He had thought, when he was fixated on Stiles and just  _ had _ to figure out what was between them, that once they fucked, once he had Stiles bent over, flushed red and moaning so prettily, once Peter got him naked and cursing his name; that it would all just go away. That sex would break the spell and pull him out of it, bring him back to earth. To his normal of one-night stands and unknown names.

 

Fucked and forgotten.

 

It was so far from the case that Peter didn’t know how to handle it. He miscalculated. He was wrong, he got it so, so  _ wrong. _

 

That was the part that unsettled him most – the fact that in all his careful planning he had failed to count in the possibility that his brief obsession with Stiles might not end being brief at all. That it would complicate his life even more, weeks after he should have been over it all.

 

\---

Peter didn’t even finish singing the last verse before he was yanking his headphones off and whirling on his bassist.

 

“What the hell was that?” He demanded. “Can’t you get even one fucking riff right?”

 

Cade stared at him in shock, just as the rest of the band. In his peripheral Peter could see the guys in the control room sharing unsure looks. It made his skin itch and chest burn with the need to lash out, release the tension building in his body.

 

“We’re all tired.” Cade hedged in a placating tone that only made Peter that much angrier, his annoyance flaring red.

 

“Because we’ve been at it all fucking night and you still can’t get it right!”

 

“Peter! That’s unfair and uncalled for!” His manager yelled as she stormed into the room and boy, Peter did not need her here and running interference. All he wanted was to record a single song right. Was that too much to ask?

 

Without a backward glance he stormed out of the room, pushing his headphones into his manager’s arms on his way out of the live room. He stopped only long enough to collect his jacket from the lounge before marching out of the studio, ignoring the clack of heels following him and Lydia’s insistent voice.

 

“Peter! Where do you think you’re going?!”

 

“Home.” He snipped angrily. “Since apparently I’m the only one who cares about this being a decent album.”

 

“Everyone is working hard on it, Peter, you know that.” She finally caught up to him and yanked at his elbow to turn him around. He went with the motion, because as much as he didn’t want to face Lydia  right this moment, it would be much worse to leave her, give her time to build up a real rant.

 

“Well then they could try harder.”

 

Lydia didn’t reply to the jab, but regarded him for a moment, her gaze inquisitive and searching. “Okay, what’s gotten into you? You’re much more difficult than usual and you’re picking up fights wherever you can. It’s messing up the whole recording schedule.”

 

Peter just stared at her, scowl firmly in place.

 

He might have given her an answer if he only knew it himself.

 

\--

  
  


Peter didn’t get it. Didn’t understand how exactly Stiles managed to crawl so deep beneath his skin. He was like a shadow hovering over every thought, a presence in the back of Peter’s mind that crawled and scratched and needed out.

 

An itch that Peter could find no way to soothe. It didn’t go away with sex. Didn’t go away when Peter tried to bury himself in work. All either of those attempts at losing himself managed was to frustrate Peter even further. He was just so angry, unfocused. Lost.

 

Confused.

 

It was as if everything about him changed without his consent, without his conscious agreement. As if the moment Stiles stepped back into Peter’s life, no matter how short the visit was, every single emotion, every weakness of days past returned with triple the force.

 

The fury that came with the realization rendered the coffee table an useless pile of glass.

 

He remembered. The memories he burrowed so deep down that they remained hidden for almost five years came back. Rushing to the surface and leaving him unbalanced. Wavering.

 

That night with Stiles: his body wrapped around Peter’s, every word he said, every single thing he threw into Peter’s face. It brought back that one failure, the one thing Peter tried so hard to bury that he forgot about one of the most important people in his life.

 

Stiles never reacted the way Peter predicted him to. He was the one variable that made no sense and it  _ excited _ Peter back then. Trying to figure Stiles out thrilled him: the way Stiles didn’t shy away, never flinched from a challenge, but took them all head on. The way he gave a good as he got if not better. His stubborn determination, his confidence, his raw strength, his craftiness and cunning ways. It all appealed to Peter. Made him  _ want. _

 

He didn’t remember the girl: she was a tool, a part of a plan that was supposed to get Stiles’ attention. She was a night, a fleeting moment that should have brought Stiles to him, not drive him away. She a means to an end. And what an end it was.

 

Never before had a plan of Peter’s construction backfired so spectacularly. It left him with a void that he tried to fill so hard it overflew.

 

And yet somehow he met Stiles again, was drawn to him like a moth to a flame. He burned at Stiles’ touch, came out scarred from the encounter. And he still couldn’t escape.

 

He could never escape.

 

Stiles was just there.  _ He was always there. _ An afterthought. His taste lingered on Peter’s tongue, his smell chased after him wherever Peter went. His voice carried, words embedded into Peter’s core.

  
  


And no amount of alcohol, no number of willing bodies, no song that Peter wrote could erase him anymore.

 

Peter was almost desperate with the need to scrub himself raw.

 

\--

 

Peter never did things by halves. He either gave it his everything or didn’t give anything at all.

 

Which was how he ended holed up in his apartment for two weeks, give or take a few days here and there. He could care less about counting them, about getting up from the couch or out of bed. About bottles littering the floor and empty food containers growing mold, about the sink full of dishes. About the dirty clothes piling the floors.

 

He was never a neat freak, but he always liked his space in order. He couldn’t muster the energy to bother himself with the chaos surrounding him at the moment though.

 

He just. His mind was a mess, inspiration all but leaving him and that was the worst part of it all. Not Stiles, not his unusual obsession, not the aftereffects so akin to withdrawal. No.

 

It was the complete lack of words, of new chords. Silence where there wa alway music.

 

Writing blocks weren’t new to him, he suffered his fair share, but never before had one felt so terminal. Conclusive. Even at his lowest Peter always had an old project or two that he could tweak with, a little thing to pass the time with between ideas for a new song.

This time around though.

 

Music had always been his escape route. His go-to salvation, his safe space. Music was just as much a tool as it was an outlet. It was both a way to gain as much as he could, and a route for thoughts he thought he couldn’t express otherwise.

 

He was by no means sentimental, nowhere close to a romantic. He simply put words he knew would strike good with the audience to use. But that didn’t change the fact that sometimes the phrases came from deep within.

 

And bereft like this, with no songs to spare,  had him drifting.

 

There was only so many nights he could spend flopping around in frustration before all air and energy left. Only so many calls from his manager he could take before turning off his phone. He emerged to get food, to run a few miles on the treadmill to tire himself out, but not for much more.

 

It couldn’t last and he didn’t want it to. But he felt entitled to this. To take some time off from life at large to come into terms with himself. There was no way he’d let anyone see him like this anyway. He had pride, an image to maintain.

 

Which of course meant that Derek would be there to pull him out of his self-imposed exile.

 

\--

 

He began by opening the curtains and all the windows with them, fresh air bringing to attention just how stale the atmosphere around Peter became. He looked at Peter with distaste, giving the apartment a look so pointed Peter was surprised the mess didn’t magically clear. And then, without as much as a hello, Derek went straight to the point.

 

“I’m guessing this has something to do with you fucking Stiles.”

 

Peter rolled to his other side, facing the back of the couch, and reconsidering his choice in favorite nephews.

 

He heard Derek sigh, the distinct sound of foil crinkling and bottles rolling on the floor indicating that he was trying to find his way around the room.

 

“I honestly prefer Stiles’ brand of miserable.” Derek said, almost offhandedly as if speaking to himself, yet loud enough for Peter to hear. “He throws all his pouting energy into studying and it actually gives him some positive results even if he ends up a bit sleep deprived. You on the other hand.” Derek huffed. The crunching of glass let Peter know Derek had found the broken coffee table. “He’s got nothing on your destructive nesting abilities.”

 

There was more crunching, some rustling, and then a big, strong hand was pushing at Peter and forcing him to turn around. Derek’s eyes were trailing over him in assessment, his expressive eyebrows furrowed.

 

He was leaning in so close that Peter could see the moment he took a sniff. He almost laughed at the way Derek’s nose scrunched.

 

“When was the last time you showered?”

 

Peter’s glare didn’t seem to do much for him when he was lying flat on the couch, but it wasn’t enough incentive to make him move so he just glared harder. “Can’t you just get on to tidying and letting Lydia know she’s still very much employed seeing as I’m alive? We both know that’s what you’re here for.”

 

“She called me because you’re being a bigger drama queen than usual. Which actually makes me wonder what were you up to before you decided to turn your pricy apartment into a pigsty.”

 

“That’s not exactly any of your concern. Nor is it Lydia’s.”

 

“Look.” Derek began and from the way his features softened Peter knew he disliked the direction the conversation was heading. He propelled himself off the couch and headed towards the bathroom, hoping to avoid whatever it was Derek had to say.

 

Derek knew him better than that though, and caught his elbow just as Peter was about to vanish behind the door.

 

“Look.” He started again. “I know something happened between you and Stiles and, as clear as it is that neither of you is going to tell me what it was exactly, it seems to have fucked up you both. I’m not putting all of the blame on you since I know Stiles better than that, but it was you who started it. So maybe instead of wallowing in self-pity you could for once get off your high horse and do something about it.”

 

With that he pushed Peter into the bathroom, locked the door, and promptly left Peter to take care of his own mess.

 

He also marched out of the apartment without actually picking up the trash.

 

\--

 

Cleaning up gave Peter something to focus on, though. A direction. The mechanical movements, the mindlessness of picking things up, throwing them into a trash bag, leaning back down; it  eased Peter’s mind enough to let it clear. Just enough to find his muses again.

 

Peter thought it ridiculous, that menial work would be what brought them back, but he spared only a short moment to laugh at it before throwing himself back into work. Lydia seemed to appreciate it enough for the both of them.

 

Derek stayed with Peter, a watchful eye that Peter didn’t need, but still appreciated. If only because no one bantered with him the way Derek did.

He began work with apologizing to his crew and they seemed to appreciate the fact that he didn’t make any excuses. They forgave him easily enough. Five years as a team had them all experienced in various states of mind. Even if Peter’s most recent antics might have been a bit over the top. 

  
  


With that out of the way though the recording began anew and Peter had barely any time to spare on making good of Derek’s advice.

  
  


\--

  
  
  


He went back home for his mother’s birthday. 

  
  


As a rule that he established early on in his career: tour or no tour, hell or high water, the first week of July was alway off limits, reserved solely for his family. Even Lydia didn’t try to bargain with him on that one, always managing his schedule around the set time frame.

  
  


The feasting, the catching up, bouts of teasing, socializing and rekindling family bond took a few day, as always, but Peter did find some down time as well. 

  
  


It was a Wednesday afternoon, three days before he had to pitch himself back face-first into work. Derek had some plans with his friends and though Peter usually tagged along, he chose to go on a stroll instead. He donned a baseball cap and a pair of sunglasses, the weather too warm to excuse a hoodie, and wandered the streets with no aim in sight.

  
  


He wasn’t looking for him, even if the thought crossed his mind. He still remembered Stiles’ prefered places, knew from Derek that he was in town. But he didn’t think it would be appreciated if he sought him out like last time. Even if his reasons were different. 

  
  


Peter knew from the few comment Derek made that Stiles wasn’t exactly unaffected by what happened between them. That, while not as dramatic as Peter,  he wasn’t completely okay after he kicked Peter out. That he too was left confused after the night they spent together. To what capacity had it affected him though Peter couldn’t be sure. And couldn’t bring himself to ask. 

 

However, no matter how Stiles handled it, Peter wasn’t exactly sure what he wanted to become of them if they met again. Not anymore.

  
  


He wanted Stiles, yes, there was no question about it. But how much of him would Peter need to be satisfied? And how little could he settle for?

  
  


The sound of hurried footsteps following him as he turned a corner brought him out of thought and he groaned inwardly. Someone must have recognized him. He wasn’t in the mood to entertain a nosy fan at the moment, but hightailing might only bring in more attention to his person. He stopped and waited for the person to reach him, wanting to get it done and over with as fast as possible, a charming smile at the ready.

  
  


It came as a surprise then seeing Stiles a few steps away, bent over his knees as he caught his breath.

  
  


He looked good, better than Peter’s memory could supply. His pale skin took on a golden sheen in the setting sun, his eyes whiskey-bright as he looked up at Peter. His long legs were wrapped in skinny, red jeans, a loose tank top hanging on his lean frame, revealing strong shoulders. Peter could hardly breathe with how much he wanted him in that moment.

  
  


“A little out of shape, aren’t we?” Peter quipped in place of a greeting.

  
  


Stiles huffed a laugh at that, straightened up to look at Peter. “Not all of us have the luxury of a private gym.” He replied with a grin. “I do believe you going under and feasting on Chinese might have done something to your condition as well.”

  
  


Ah, so Peter wasn’t the only one Derek kept updated with offhanded comments. That sneaky brat. But, judging by the fact that Stiles approached Peter without screaming bloody murder, it seemed Derek did them all a favor. 

  
  


“It was just a short vacation. No lasting damage to the goods.”

  
  


Stiles laughed again, took a step closer, then another. Smiled warm and encouraging, but not entirely open. There wa fire in his eye still, a lingering sort of anger. He seemed determined, a if he made a decision and intended to go through with it. 

  
  


Maybe there was a way for it to work, Peter thought as he watched Stiles. Maybe they could get some closure, at the very least. Settle down, refocus.  It seemed like there were only things to gain from where they were. An old friend, an end. A beginning or a night.

  
  


“Get coffee with me.” Stiles said, an offer more than a request and Peter liked how boldly Stiles delivered the line, how sure he looked. How certain of Peter going along with it all. He relished in it.

  
  


He nodded, turned in the direction of his favorite cafe and waited for Stiles to join him at his side.

  
  


It was a start. 

 


	4. Epilogue

It was almost morning when they finally fund their way to the hotel room. They stumbled through the door: Stiles practically plastered to Peter’s side, he was so drunk. Both of them laughing at the way Peter could barely hold them both upright and going.

 

But it was okay, the bed was right there.

 

Peter was tired, the good kind of it. The last concert of his tour was a success, the party afterwards a blast and no scandals ahead. Everything felt even better because Stiles was right there with him for it all: accosting him in the dressing room to wish him good luck, hanging out backstage before and during the concert, even joining him on stage for a brief, exhilarating moment, and later at his side at the afterparty.

 

So Peter didn’t complain when he had to drag Stiles to the bed, when he laid him down instead of just letting him fall, when he maneuvered his shoes off and pulled down his socks. He didn’t bemoan having to strip Stiles of his shirt or that he had to slide off his jeans, the last one the only struggle as they clung to Stiles’ long legs like a second skin. But once those were off it was all pale skin and clusters of moles Peter knew the patterns off by heart by now. His cheeks were flushed though: from alcohol, from the way Peter undressed him, unraveled him.

 

With gentle hands Peter urged Stiles to lie down on his belly, his long, lean body stalling Peter’s breath, the way it was spread on the navy blue sheets. He took a moment to just look his fill: catching Stiles looking at him over his shoulder with a soft smiles before letting his eyes drag down, tracing all the curves and angles, strong muscles and soft skin.

 

His body was buzzing, but not with alcohol. It was all need and longing, hunger he could never really satiate, that only calmed enough to bare when he could touch Stiles, when he could hold him in his arms. He looked and Stiles didn’t even squirm, not even when Peter finally crawled on the bed until he was hovering over Stiles. Until he could, nose at his nape, kiss down his spine. Bite down at top of his ass.

 

Stiles was all pliant and loose, half asleep as he let Peter take his time for once. Allowed him to just nip and kiss all over him, to sink his teeth in Stiles' shoulder, his left inner thigh, his ass: Peter sucking vicious marks into the meat of his cheeks.

 

Allowed Peter to push between his legs and spread him apart, spread him open with lingering kisses and his tongue for so long Stiles was numb with pleasure.

 

But he was still smiling softly as Peter got up and took off his own clothes at last, fast and efficient and with not even a trace of care he showed Stiles. He looked, his eyes half lidded, as Peter climbed back up the bed and reached for the lube stashed under the pillow. His gasp was all breath when Peter pressed two fingers in, but getting steadily louder, deeper, turning to a long  moan as Peter finally slid inside Stiles with one slow push.

 

It was slow, lazy languorous thrusts that were both a tease and just enough. It was Peter pulling out almost completely before pushing back in.

 

Peter fucked Stiles like that, his hips rolling easily, one hand clamped on Stiles' hips, the other on the pillow right next to Stiles' head to keep him up, to give him leverage.

 

It was the closest they had ever come to making love.

 

Languid and soft, passionate and breathtaking at the same time.

 

All Stiles could feel was Peter: his fingers digging into his skin, his hot breath at the nape of his neck, his kisses open mouthed and wet on his shoulders, his cock deep inside, filling.

 

All Peter could feel was Stiles: his hot, sweaty skin; his voice breaking on moans, on Peter’s name, on pleas for more. His body moving to meet Peter, so open for him, welcoming yet tight, just perfect, always perfect and only for him.

 

Stiles' orgasm seemed almost an afterthought: he was so focused on the drag of Peter's cock, on the soft encouragements spilling from Peter's lips, whispered into the dead of night, lost in the sheets. Lost to the tangle of their breath when Peter came and collapsed on top of him, kissed him messily, lazy, kissed him like they had all the time in the world, like it was one of a million kisses they'd share. Like a promise.

 

\---

 

_“I don’t want to spend this relationship following you around.”_

 

_“No, I don’t want that either. But you could visit; join me when you have time, a break between terms. And I’d always come back. Make time. Just,” Peter ambled closer, closing the gap between them. He cupped Stiles’ cheek in his palm, rubbed his thumb over his full, plush lips following the movement of his finger for a moment before focusing on Stiles again. “Don’t rule this out without trying.”_

 

_“I want to try. I want you to try.” Stiles spoke without leaning away, his mouth brushing against Peter’s thumb. Sealed with a soft kiss._

 

_“I want you.”_

 

_Stiles smiled, a little soft curve to his lips, his eyes bright as he leaned in to close the gap between  them. “I guess it’s the same thing.”_

 

\---

 

The street below were churning with life, the thrum of engines and people somewhat soothing. A perfect background noise for a morning smoke. Peter leaned on the railing looking ahead and at nothing at all, simply enjoying the sun and the soft breeze, the view from the balcony nothing short of spectacular.

 

But it paled compared to the sight waiting for Peter in bed, apparently waking up and calling for him in a rough, sleepy voice.

 

“Peter?”

 

“Gimme a sec.” He called and took one last drag before flicking the stub into the air and down on the pavement. He inhaled deeply and turned, a fond smile curving his lips as he entered the room, leaving the balcony door open behind him.

 

Not bothering to shuck his clothes off Peter dropped on the bed right next to Stiles all but buried in his pillows, pawing at the covers until he could hip at his jawline. Kiss him good morning.

 

It didn’t take long for Stiles to stir, an arm snaking from beneath the sheet to pull Peter in for a much deeper kiss. But it didn’t last long before he was pushing Peter away with a grimace. “Ugh. You reek. You could have at least brushed your teeth.”

 

“You’re one to talk, Morning Breath.” He said even as he reeled Stiles back in for another kiss.

 

“You should have thought about it before you put a ring on it. Suck it up.” Stiles replied with a grin before breathing right into Peter’s face.

 

Peter caught him before he could scramble off the bed, Stiles’ whole body shaking with laughter as he tried to fight Peter’s hold. He was still laughing when Peter had finally pinned him down to the bed, Stiles’ head hanging off the end of the mattress.

 

“Oh, I’ll certainly find something to suck.” Peter promised and nipped his way down Stiles’ chest until his laughter died on a moan.

  



End file.
